My late brother-in-law, rest his soul, had a cat he named Phoebe. When he died tragically, George and I took her in, and put her on the payroll as 'chief mouser' of the premises. You may recall that the business was located next to the Meadowlands in Secaucus, NJ, where field mice were the majority of the denizens who called the area home. They weren't much of a bother in the warmer months, but during the winter, they were as heat seeking as the rest of us. The best deterrent was the presence and scent of a cat, and Phoebe relished her new position.
There were initially two problems, one big and one small. The big one was the dogs did not welcome Phoebe at first; more on that to follow. The small one was George didn't like saying the name Phoebe. I think it reminded him of his son saying it, so he changed her name to Fat Cat ( which aptly described her). She was a Persian calico, predominately black, with patches of tan and brown that looked brush stroked onto her fur.
Max and Eddie immediately chased Fat Cat when she first arrived, and she sought sanctuary up the ladder to the second story storage area. Over their barks I could hear her hiss and make that guttural sound cats make when they are extremely annoyed, at the same time swishing her tail which had ballooned to the size of a raccoons.
This lasted about two days, until Fat Cat must have thought 'enough of this' as she made her way down the ladder to confront the dogs. I admit to holding my breath as I watched the encounter.
It really wasn't a fair fight' as Fat Cat dispatched both dogs faster than Joe Louis took care of Max Schmelling in the first round. As the both dogs came at her, she swiped both noses with one clawed paw each, a left then a right, sending Max and Eddie yelping away with a dose of humility they never forgot. It was Queen Fat Cat from then on, and their deference never again wavered.
I've always been amazed how quickly most animals can seek their own level, and come to an understanding faster than most people can.